


Here Be Monsters

by oonaseckar



Category: Diana Wynne Jones, Ogre Downstairs - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Chemistry, F/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Ogres, Pining, Step-Sibling Incest, Step-parents, Step-siblings, magic toffeebars, residual magic, toffeebars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adorable purring toffee-bar monsters, to be precise.  </p>
<p>The magical chemistry set was a long time ago, and this mixed family has experienced loss and change and interesting developments since then.  At a family occasion, the past comes back to visit them, in more than one way.</p>
<p>For lost_spook's prompt, 'The Ogre Downstairs, Gwinny, not all the magic is dead', in the Obscure and British Multifandom Commentfest on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Be Monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lost_spook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_spook/gifts).



Gwinny's the last, settling into her seat at the corner table in the bar, even though it's her big day. One of her tutors caught her and got chatting at the bar – one of her ex-tutors, now that her graduation ceremony is done, and she's only discarded her cap and gown half an hour ago. The photos are over, and she's collected up her family and friends to spend a wind-down hour in the pub, getting a bit tipsy, and being told how very proud of her they are.

Hey, it's nice. Every graduand's entitled to get stroked a bit, on their special day. And her family are popping with excitement and pride. Most of them. Barring the glaring omission. Gwinny's heart aches as she sees the spot, right in the corner, elaborately left between Johnny and Malcolm. It's not animosity – they get along fine, now, as adults. A bit too well: they'd bullied her into this awful soft-grunge Pre-Raph dress together, under the gown, claiming she wasn't the smart suit 'type'. They both have a lot more sartorial opinions than they did as kids. She isn't sure about Malcolm, but she's pretty sure Johnny is going to wind up hosting a reality TV show bossing women around about their wardrobes. And yes, that's probably a euphemism.

No, the space is for Mum. Her favourite spot, after a family hike that wound up in a beer or two, and they all know it. No-one says a word about it, though. She's only been gone six months, and it aches for everyone like a rotten root in the gums.

“To Gwinny!” the Ogre announces, lifting his glass, with barely a second for her to settle herself in and look around her. “The scientist of the family, a newly fledged vet and a blessing to every living creature on God's good green earth – as those little toffee monsters would have told us, once upon a time, eh Gwin? To Gwinny!”

There's a little stir and tremor disturbing the air around them, as the ones affected register his words. But everyone lifts their glasses, because considering the environment, who cares? The Ogre hasn't quite enough inhibitions, and sometimes says things that make his kids and step-kids think fondly of that chemistry set, and maybe a tube that could have tied a knot in his tongue. But a guy wedged in the corner of the pub, saying weird and incomprehensible things? Big deal. Apply Occam's Razor: no-one's going to be assuming that it's because they're a family who once experienced a number of upheavals, as a result of buying a magical chemistry set. It's not the _first_ thing that springs to mind, is it? 

Even without speaking, that same thought crosses all their minds, barring the Ogre. Still, Gwinny has to repress a little smile, and she looks down at her drink to give herself a minute, regaining her straight face. It disarms her, and makes her less ready, though. Because when she looks up again, Douglas is smiling at her across the table. He's amused too. But does he need to _smile_ at her about it? 

And when he catches the flash of disapproval and distance in her face, the smile's immediately wiped right off it, in any case. But it was too broad and too flagrant for everyone else not to notice. And what they get as a result, is an awkward little moment of silence. Then Malcolm clears his throat. He murmurs quietly, “I've never been really comfortable eating toffee ever since.” Everyone snickers, and the tension eases a bit, even if they'd sound a nutty crowd to any eavesdropper. Brazil nut toffee, perhaps. 

“Mum would've been proud of you, Gwinny,” Johnny says quietly, staring down into his pint.

Someone was inevitably going to say it, but it's a bit of a surprise that it's Johnny – police cadet, ruffian turned upholder of the law, never anything less than laddy and with his emotions well repressed. Gwinny feels her face crumple up and, despite her best efforts, a couple of tears squeeze through her lashes. The Ogre reaches out and pats her hand, and Caspar passes her a tissue. 

They're not the only ones who seek to comfort her. She's not being careful, or sufficiently on the alert, and as she dabs at her eyes there's a sudden escape from her smart jacket pocket. It's too fast for any bystander to be quite sure what she's seen: but no-one here is an uninformed bystander. Caspar makes a grab, Malcolm sucks in a breath and laughs out loud. The Ogre lets out a yell, and then shuts himself up abruptly. Everyone snickers a bit, mouths open with shock, a little bit amused too.

“Oh, Gwinny, honestly,” Malcolm says disapprovingly. “You brought it to your graduation ceremony? You've still got one? You kept _that_ bloody quiet, didn't you?”

What he's referring to, is the living toffee bar that has sensed Gwinny's distress, and escaped from captivity to comfort her. It's nestled, now, under the light-brown fall of her hair, just in front of her ear, hidden enough not to attract bewildered attention. Except from the family. And with one rather worn and blunt corner, it's patting at Gwinny's cheek, as she dries her face. “Shush, Malcolm,” Gwinny says quietly. “You'll only draw more attention.”

And she pets, discreetly, gratefully, at the toffee bar. It's so emboldened by the reception that it's gotten, that it peeks out a little at the rest of the assembled company. And then it wriggles and scampers out of hiding. And then it gets a bit too bold altogether.

“Oh, hell, Gwinny,” Douglas says, seriously. “You can't let it do _that._ ”

The toffee bar is curling itself around Gwinny's drink, just in the bright spot by the window where translucent daylight meets the electricity of the bar illumination, the dusty air pointillistically brilliant. And not just that, but it's also stretching itself down, to have a sip at the vodka glinting up amongst ice rocks. 

“Shut up, lads. Let it be,” the Ogre mumbles indulgently. “If Gwinny's managed to keep the little bugger this long – with a bit of magic in it, too – then it must be a senior citizen, by now. It's probably about a hundred and two in toffee-bar years. Old folks have earned their ale, and a bet on at the bookies, whenever they damn well feel like. It and me both.”

Douglas sighs. “The magic isn't in the toffee,” he mutters. “It's in Gwinny.” He gives her a sidelong look out from under his lashes. But he also picks up his briefcase – articles finished, now, solicitor in full – and slings it on the table. It's at a handy angle, just so that it obscures the view from the bar, of living confectionery that's getting gaily pissed on Gwinny's girlie mixed short. 

Gwinny knows it's true. When her classmates cry out that's it's unfair, that Gwin can talk to the animals as the cohort's own Dr Dolittle, then it's sometimes, often, literally true. And it's also true that the magic died out of all the chemistry set paraphernalia long ago, even the Ogre's pipe. Barring the stuff she held onto, of course, and she's kept carefully quiet about that. The cat's well out of the bag now, though. But even disapproving Douglas doesn't seem to mind so much, not on her special day. Not judging by the way he's caught her hand after positioning the case, and hangs on to it too, tight and squeezing a bit.

They smile at each other, and Caspar emits a tiny groan. “Oh, cripes. You two starting up again?” 

“Leave 'em alone,” Johnny says absently, stroking the toffeebar with a careful finger, as it purrs slurringly. “It's their business. If Mum didn't have a problem with it, it's not up to us.”

And she hadn't. 'Whatever makes you happy, love,' had been her verdict, but then it was her usual and expectable credo. Still, the rest of the family, barring perhaps the Ogre who was _staying well out_ , had been alternately creeped, or stunned, or disbelieving. All this, four or so years back, her undergrad course barely underway. It had put a dampener on it, on a three-months' hesitant walking-out. The shy and wary experiment had fizzled, and they'd negotiated a near-tacit agreement that it wasn't the greatest idea. It had only been a little awkward, since.

“I'm just saying,” Caspar says, eminently reasonable. “That would be the most uncomfortable wedding _ever._ Plus, I'd be worried about the Greek bikers popping up out of the nave in church, busting up the tiling to act as wedding party escort. Wouldn't you? It's exactly what they'd do.”

“You know, Gwin,” Malcolm says, finishing up his ale manfully – all the extra six inches and four stone of him, these days – and getting his wallet out for another round. “I saw a recipe for toffee vodka a while back – on Lorraine Pascal's show, I think it was. I'm just sayin', that's all. You immerse the toffee in the spirit long enough, it melts completely. Apparently it's fantastic.”

There are cries all the table around, “Oh, you're horrible,” and, “Shut UP,” at that. And Douglas just casually swipes the bugger upside the head, claiming an older brother's prerogative of mindless violence, even now that Malcolm has an inch and a few pounds on him. Although Malcolm does have a point: the toffee-bar is a bit of an enthusiastic toper, and has tipped itself far enough over the edge of Gwinny's glass that it's in danger of falling in and dissolving. 

Gwinny retrieves it gently, and pops it in her pocket again – with a few careful looks around. It writhes and jerks in protest. But once in the dark again, it quiets down like a bird with the cover over the cage. 

And when she's done, Douglas takes a hold of her hand again, although there's no excuse for it this time. Seems like he doesn't need one in particular, and they settle there comfortably, holding hands like any established couple. With only the odd grizzle, and pointed remark from Malcolm and Caspar, and a benign wilful myopia from the Ogre. The gap amongst them, the corner seat, it aches just the same. But some things Gwinny still has, and still is, and there are magical promises she can feel looming up in her future.

When they've all had at least one too many, and stand outside the bar in the bright blinking yellow sunlight, the Ogre hugs her tight. “So proud,” he mutters, and if his eyes are damp Gwinny knows better than to comment. “She'd be so proud.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, the hints of romance between Gwynny and Douglas are mild and inexplicit: I only warn for those automatically squicked by any step-sib relationship. Character death is off-stage.


End file.
